The saviour of the slaughter: A Dogmatist tale
by Tizmouk
Summary: It is M30, the age of strife has devastated the imperium of mankind, yet in a distant galaxy, a former mining planet thrives eagerly awaiting to reconnect with the empire. This is the story of the rise of the Dogmatist as a people, and of the saviour of their slaughter. My first attempt at writing, and more than open to constructive criticism.
1. Chapter 1

Half a mile below the surface hatches the grand cathedral of the Schola Psychicae stands at the heart of the city. It had been carefully carved into the soul of the mountain, as had every other structure down here. This structure however, unlike its dirty, rough edged and haphazard neighbours was a sight to behold. Colossal columns run down either side of a doorway that stretched twenty foot high, each engraved with countless runes and names of heroes gone by. Precious minerals and gems lay set deep into the stone, polished so clear that they reflect the little light that reached these depths in an array of colors that the rest of mankind could only dream of experiencing. Behind the five foot thick Ashoak wooden doors lay a marble floor that gleamed so bright it would feel like a sin to place your foot upon it.

Father Dorecketh did place his foot upon it, and did so again and again as he paced the huge worshipping hall, his ornamental blue robes effortlessly flowing behind him like full mast flags. Every ten paces he passed a column holding a statue of one of his forefathers, and each time he peered up into their grey empty eyes, seeking support, guidance, inspiration… anything. He shook his head in disbelief. His peers had now gathered by the altar and were arguing amongst themselves. Running his hands through his long greying hair he tried to block out the sound to focus on his thoughts, but all he could focus on were the thoughts of his fellow Psykers. He knew their fears, and they in turn knew his, that was what it was to be in the Schola Psychicae. As if on que the hall fell silent.

"Enough!" Dorecketh bellowed, his deep voice amplifying through the entire cathedral.

"We do not have the luxury of time, nor I the patience for this childish squabbling. It is in this moment that we must come together, to lead our people, to do or to die."

"To do or to die" the room echoed.

* * *

Commander Mortiz was late, and he hated being late, especially if it was due to no fault of his own. He rushed around his quarters searching for everything he needed. It was a miracle he could find anything the mess he had left it in. He cursed, why was it today he chose to patrol the abandoned mines, sure he had his duties, but why did it have to be today. He hurriedly pulled on his dark blue regimental coat of the Planetary Defence force, his aide clasping the bronze buttons into place. Before he could ask he was passed his hat, the crimson red fabric matching the las pistol that had already been holstered and attached to the metal belt he never realised was already around his waist.

"Wait, when did you…" He began, his husky voice sounding rather perplexed.

"Just now sir, your data slates are in your missions folder, and your escort are awaiting outside." The reply came before Mortiz had a chance to finish his question. He grabbed his mission folder from his unmade bunk and began to pace out of the room and down the hall lighting a cigar, shouting back "You know Cleeton, lad, sometimes i think i would forget my own head if you were not here."

"Yes sir, your boots sir." Cleeton cried out.

* * *

The view from atop mount Vivus was always an enchanting one, a three sixty panoramic view of sheer emptiness. The sun rise would slowly illuminate the vast deserts that stretched as far as a man's eye could see, picking out the small farming towns that from this height looked like nothing more than random tiny black ink splats on a very large blank red canvas. The Vivus cliff divers would start their calls, the faded blue birds swooping at breakneck speeds down the mountain side catching insects before returning to their nests to feed the crying chicks. Occasionally a black mountain hawk would intercept, twisting and turning as it hunted its prey, the spectacle unfolding reminiscent of the bitter dog fights that raged in the skies during the Green Wars that ended a mere century before.

Sergeant Kratz sat back to the wall in the corner of his guard bunker, a small outpost at the peak of the mountain with rock walls six foot thick. He took in a deep breath, choosing to take in the crisp cold clean mountain air rather than use his oxygen aid. Not many men could survive these heights without an oxygen aid, but then if you could not survive then you had no place up the mountain and you definitely had no place in the Zenith Corps. That's what Kratz believed, that is what Kratz preached. Brokkus sat opposite him, his tall muscular frame perched on an upturned supply crate. He was cracking sparrow eggs into an empty ammo tin that sat being heated on top of a slightly charged plasma cell. He closed his eyes as he wafted the steam into his face, picturing his grandfather, remembering the smells, the tastes. "It needs more rock thyme" he muttered in his coarse voice slurping a spoon full of the stew.

"Starving Brok just give us a chug" Rudd exclaimed holding out his tin ration mug.

"Yeh, Smells just right Brok come on" Declo seconded shoving his mug forward.

The two short and stocky brothers still dressed in full patrol gear had been waiting over an hour since Brokkus had started cooking, their tired white eyes standing out on their blackened dirt painted faces like stars in a night sky. It had been over twenty hours since they last ate, and 30 hours since they slept, patience was a world away.

"Get me some rock thyme and we will be good to go, trust me it'll be worth it" Brokkus gestured towards the doorway slotting his spoon back into the top pocket of his greasy white vest top.

"Don't send Slippy..." Kratz urged "he'll chuck himself off the edge and we will never get our tucker"

The room filled with laughter, Slippy, a scrawny baby faced lad better known as Hatem was the newest recruit to Kratz's squad. He gave a wry smile and headed out the door after gesturing his displeasure with a flick of the fingers.

A short minute passed before Hatem burst back through the way he left.

"Sarge the convoys are on the move!" he struggled through wheezing lungs.

"which ones lad?"

"All of them!"

* * *

The farmstead was already ablaze by the time trooper Stanton reached it. In fact the whole area was, thick black smoke filled the small dirt tracks connecting the farming habs making it near impossible to see. Civilians were rushing in a panicked frenzy to gather any remaining belongings before fleeing back to the city. Little did they know their efforts would be fruitless. Trooper Stanton ducked as another shell came whistling in, decimating a habhouse and sending shrapnel flying across the road. Nearby a cart exploded, the wood splinters cutting down two civilians in an instant. Trooper Stanton froze. This was the first time he saw death. He managed to come to senses in time to run for cover as another shell smashed into the road. He fell behind a garden wall where a young boy sat clasping his hands to his ears screaming. Trooper Stanton looked at him, and saw what his whole body craved to do. He shook the thought from his mind, he had a duty, a purpose, he was to defend this farming town to his last breath. "Do or die" he muttered and with a new found confidence he ran through the smoke towards his guard tower. More shells came whistling in and this time they came accompanied by gun fire, he could hear the roar of engines in the distance, the deep mechanical groans edging closer and closer and getting louder and louder.

The guard tower stood at the edge of the town built into the unmanned defensive wall that was designed more for the purpose of raising morale then to keep the enemy out. Most of it had already crumbled to the shells that found their mark, the rubble creating stepping stones in the flooded moat.  
Stanton rushed up the ladder and into the control room with his las rifle slung over his shoulder, his wet boots slipping on the horizontal metallic bars. He rushed straight over to the communications box and began relaying information. "Come in command, this is farmstead 6241, we are under direct attack, I repeat we are under direct attack!" his voice was broken, panicked. "Come in command, this is…"

"Farmstead 6241 this is command please confirm your status" the radio crackled back interrupting, the operator clear and calm clearly had no explosions to worry about Stanton thought as another shell shook the ground.

"We are under direct attack! Reinforcements required immediately!"

"Farmstead 6241 this is command, please confirm the appropriate military status"

"STATUS WE ARE KNEE DEEP IN THE KETHING STINK! SEND MEN HERE NOW!" the anger sore through Stanton's veins. He looked up and stared out the wide viewing screen only to see that the war wagons were now a matter of a hundred metres away, racing across the desert at full speed. The radio was repeating its appropriate status command. He managed a one word response of blind fear before a shell disintegrated him.

"GREENSKINS!"


	2. Chapter 2

Young Creeton slowly picked through commander Mortizs room as he cleaned and tidied the chaotic mess that was left behind. He always tidied when he was stressed, it was just convenient that it was also a chore that was required. It was required a lot in commander Mortizs dorm. He knew that the Lord father Dorecketh would visit soon, and he knew what he would think. That was what was making him stressed. He knew the trouble it would cause, and the consequences. He shook the thought from his mind and refocused on his task at hand, to clean and to tidy, to serve the commander by any means. In the corner of the room a week's worth of clothes stood in front of the barred window and reached as high as the unmade bunk. Creeton imagined it would grow as tall as Mount Vivus itself if it were not for his weekly clear out and the barracks maids services. He decided to make a start there, and decided today was a good day to try on the commander's clothes. The blue combat jacket and heavy crimson helmet dwarfed the short thin boy who had just turned thirteen. Looking into the mirror set into the clothes locker door, that Cleeton noted was in need of a polish, he stood to attention and smiled, allowing himself to relive the memory of when his father would allow him to try on his uniform and play militant. This uniform however lacked the smell of his father, and instead bore the regimental stripes of commander rather than sergeant. Slipping the helmet back on to the top shelf he sighed. He knew of the attacks that had hit the outer farming towns, that was what the data slates had read anyway, and that's why commander Mortiz had to rush to the cathedral almost forgetting his boots. It was also why Lord father Dorecketh would be soon to come to the barracks, why Creeton wanted to run and hide in his old ashoak closet, and why he must tidy.

* * *

Farmstead 5973 was almost perfectly still. The civi convoys had left en masse as soon as the initial reports of conflicts in the outer steads had reached them. All that remained were a few stragglers who were piling wagons with everything they owned, too proud or too stupid to leave anything behind. Sergeant Pozak looked on in amazement as they waved off the militants warnings to leave immediately. He knew as well as his men that they were likely to be the first casualties from this farmstead. Pozak and his men had moved into the stead just an hour earlier, they were to head to the outer farms but had been informed it was too late and to conserve energy and time by digging in here. He had utilised his time well, setting up a strong defensive line. His cadet marksman were stationed in the tallest of buildings, his best sitting in the steeple of the chapel that overlooked the entire perimeter and beyond into the stretches of crops and desert. Outside the walls amongst the wheat fields mines had been laid, the food was as good as gone now anyway, and the enemy would try to use the fields as cover. The words tactically sound had been used by the commander when he had voxed in his status, and this had filled Pozak with pride. Flamers were sat waiting to torch anything that got too close on either flank while rainmaker squads armed with autocannons stood evenly spaced along the sand bagged streets propping the heavy guns on window ledges and upturned empty ammo crates.

It took two hours before the shelling began, the decorative shells whistling through the air and ripping huge holes into the masonry. stone shrapnel shot across the streets while wood splinters threatened to pierce through anything or anyone in their path. It took two minutes for Pozaks predictions to come to light. A shell looped down detonating next to the cart the civilians had previously been loading sending the belongings in countless directions. The owner's prized safe he refused to leave without came crashing down crushing him in an instant.

Pozak sounded the order and the cadet marksman high in the same cathedral he occupied began voxing the positions of the enemy, perfectly co ordinating the distance by sight alone. The rainmaker mortar squads fine tuned the dials on the side of the slender tubes sending explosive shells over the walls and into the enemy's lines with devastating precision. Cheers roared from the cadets as they watched the greenskins war wagons flip and explode. They quickly went back to work training their aim on any survivors stumbling from the wreckages, perfectly placed shots halting any movement. Cadet marksman Blaithe was trying to remember his training, he had not even finished basic before he was called into the commander's office and reassigned to the marksman unit. He cursed that day, it had left him vulnerable, a target, a sitting duck. That's how he felt high up in the steeple as he shot round after round. His gut tore at him, urging him to turn and run, to hide, to do anything but draw attention to himself. That's what the child inside him wanted, but he was a man now, sixteen years of age and a fully trained member of the planetary defence force. He was remembering his training though, and using every ounce of it he could muster. He swung the long barreled las rifle in an ark as he traced a running Ork trying to gain cover. A quick controlled squeeze of the trigger left the greenskin scum still in his tracks before dropping to his knees and ending face down in an ever expanding pool of his own blood.

Below in the chapel, Pozak listened to the violence unfold. He was sheltering from the shelling as was his all his men down the defensive line. The occasional cry for a medic pierced the air struggling to be heard through the loud bangs of the explosions that shook the ground like mini earthquakes. Men in full combat gear ducked every time a shell fell too close for comfort, but spirits remained high. Besides the shelling the main noises were that of cheering voices and the confirmation of dying foes. Pozak allowed himself to enjoy this moment, for he knew that it would not last, and that the real test would be when the thin flimsy protective stone wall was fully breached.

* * *

Dorecketh sat at his large ornamental altar that was hand carved from marble and ivory. Grand intricate battle heroes or noble robed martyrs presented themselves on every available space. Etched into the surface were the names of his heroic forefathers, each bringing their own glories to Arminium. He could recall every moment of history, the moment his 3rd great grandfather defeated the heathen of heresy during the wars of horror, or just a mere hundred years earlier when his own father beheaded the Ork warlord Gwazhaaa to bring an end to the Green wars. He wondered how he may be remembered upon the altar if at all. Could he could live up to such glorious reputation and lead his people to victory, or would he lead them to their end. The thoughts pulled at him, turning his stomach and he fought hard to suppress them from his peers. The cathedral had erupted back into array as noble house leaders and dignitaries clashed in a war of words with military captains and the Scholar, each venting their frustrations on the loss of farming profits due to military practices. The captains were furious at how their men were losing their lives defending the steads without gratitude and the psykers were trying to mediate and maintain the peace, subtly influencing the mood of the room to calmer levels to prevent an all out riot.

Commander Mortiz marched into the frenzy, his two guards either side forcing open a path with gentle yet forceful persuasion . He produced an image of pure discipline, not breaking stride, eyes fixed forward. His presence led to the captains to immediately stand to attention and salute, while the nobility fell silent with their arguments now falling upon deaf ears. The cathedral, for the first time all morning, fell silent.

"Forget the formalities commander, your lateness is forgiven, straight to business if you will," Dorecketh's deep voice echoed with authority.

"As you will Lord Father, Stead 6241 was the first to come under fire, and has now fallen into the hands of the enemy, as has the entirety of sector 6," moans and geers came from several in the crowd as they learnt the fate of their farms. " Sector 5 is now under considerable threat but they are yet to breach the walls, the defences for now, are holding strong. Lord Father i must stress that sector 5 is where.."

"I am fully aware of the status thank you commander," Dorecketh swiftly interrupted. "The Greenskins, why did the fleet not intercept their ships?"

"There were no ships spotted Lord Father, we fear they have been on the ground for some time."

"One hundred years, one hundred years of patrols, scouting and searching, one hundred years for what, for you to tell me that we have had Orks here all along?" Anger was not often seen in Dorecketh, and despite his words, he remained a statue of calm.

"I fear yes Lord Father, history tells us that at the end of the Green Wars the Orks were drove back, there is no mention they were all killed or that they even left. It may be that while we have rebuilt, so have they."

"Well I would argue that is rather a damn obvious statement considering the predicament we find ourselves in. You do not need to be a member of the Schola Psychicae to see that commander," A few sniggers filled the room as Mortiz remained stood to attention. Dorecketh liked Mortiz, he was a good man, a man who inspired his troops, and attracted respect without question. He hated to belittle the man, but it helped calm the room and ease tension. Mortiz was one of the few men that would understand the need and one of the few men whose reputation would not be tarnished by a few words.

"That is why your men have been searching for signs ever since. How well has the enemy been allowed to rebuild commander? What number of enemy are we talking?"

Commander Mortiz cleared his throat with a cough and uncharacteristically shifted his weight.. His captains sensing what was to come began heading for the exit. His guards readily placed their hands over their lasguns.

"Initial reports suggest a quarter of a million Lord Father." he replied. The Cathedral erupted with fury.

Commander Mortiz pushed his through the angry mob past the statues of heroes past to exit the cathedral, his guards were working hard to protect him, in cases hitting men back with butts of their guns. He could hear the Lord Father Dorecketh's shouts for calm as the crowd jeered and shouted in a threat to riot. Mortiz laughed inside at his thoughts: Dignitaries, leaders, heads of house, men of gentlemanly handshakes and political politeness yet they turn into a wild mob of animals. If they faced the enemy with this much ferocity instead of hiding behind their walls the fight would be as good as over! He managed to exit the wrath of the nobility but one of his captains was not so lucky. At the doorway of the cathedral a young man had been mobbed and beaten, his twisted bloodied body lay broken and twitching after being repeatedly kicked and stamped on. Mortiz stepped over him and ordered one of his guard to drag him to safety and take him straight to the medical infirmary. As he walked through the carved streets of the city beneath the mountain he cursed. He knew why Dorecketh had belittled him, at least he liked to think it was because he knew he could handle it. But it still hurt, and did no favours for his militia patrolling the streets. He liked Dorecketh, he saw a man who was burdened by his responsibility, but a man who wanted to lead his people to glory. He was a firm but fair leader, a man he could respect. His thoughts drifted as he sensed he was being followed. He quickened his pace, readying his laspistol. His guard took note and followed suit arming his lasgun as they quickly turned left, then right down an alley. He knew these streets well. He grew up here, he knew each crevice better then the gutter rats. He remembered how to get to the barracks quickly, and knew what dangers may lurk around each corner. Looking back he glimpsed a crimson robed figure as he took another right. He felt his heart leap into his mouth. Angles, he thought, the more angles the better, the more angles the more likely he would lose his pursuer. Another dart left, another turn right. Sweat stung his eyes, this was no sweat from exertion, no this was from fear. Why would they be after me? he thought. He ducked under ragged cream sheets left out to dry and side stepped children playing in the street. I'm needed, there's a battle raging! Another glance behind, Another crimson robe. Keth the patrols, I patrolled everywhere I could. Even the mines. His heart felt as if it beated faster than the wings of a hover wasp. Another left. He would be a hundred paces from the barracks now, just two more corners. No they can't, that's no battle up there, that's a war, there's a quarter million Orks for Keth's sake!

"Yes for Lord Dorecketh's sake," The short crimson robed figure appeared in front of him and knocked Mortiz to the ground with the slightest of touches as he turned the corner. His guard raised his gun but before he realised it flew out of his hands and was caught by the pursuer. "I am here on the command of our Lord Father..."

Mortiz sat on his knees as he looked up at the empty expressionless white mask, he closed his eyes and thought of his family expecting death.

"He commands your presence at your quarters at sunrise. He expects your time keeping should not be an issue."

Mortiz opened his eyes, the robed figure had vanished.

* * *

Cadet Blaithe watched as Ork after Ork piled off the battle wagons, and began running through the corn fields. He had single handedly slowed the advance of 4 battle wagons by taking out the drivers but his position in the tower was coming under ever increasing fire. He lay pressed to the ground, looking through his scope through a recent opening in the wall, the result of a recent shell blast. His thin drawn face was pale, his eyes wide. The bloodied screams of his dying and wounded comrades filled his heart with yet more fear. He only took comfort in each greenscum he fell. In the corn fields the mines worked to perfection to the cheer of the planetary defence troops. The first wave of the enemy took substantial losses, and the flames had set the whole fields in a blazing roaring fire. Thick black smoke choked the air leading Orks choking and stumbling into the open to be cut down by mortar fire and the snipers. Another huge explosion, but this time no cheer was to be heard. Instead the silence was filled by the deep gruesome roars of the enemy, and the cracking and crumbling of masonry. Once the dust had settled, cadet Blaithe vomited and froze, as a tide of greenskins came crashing through the wall.


	3. Chapter 3

Pozak's heart dropped.


End file.
